


In extremis

by middlemarch



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: Amy smoking, Angst, Friendship, Gen, Gina directing from off-screen, Prison, likely to be AU very soon, references to ballet, season 5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-29
Updated: 2017-09-29
Packaged: 2019-01-06 16:41:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12214734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/pseuds/middlemarch
Summary: He'd thought they could manage a rescue, even after the utter debacle of the trial.





	In extremis

The cellphone was positioned exactly 4 centimeters from the landline on his desk. There had been a stack of documents in the top right hand corner, but he’d dealt with them first, undecided as to whether they constituted duty or distraction. There was a glass, not a mug, of room temperature tap water and a rusk that Kevin would have raised an eyebrow at, but Ray had allowed himself the luxury in anticipation of what the day held. The polished surface was the world and it was organized and precise; it was readily apparent, to anyone with the eyes to see it, that it was missing something.

Anyone with eyes—who would that be? It could have been Santiago, but only in the past tense. Now, he often noticed her gazing into a vague distance, her collar askew, her dark eyes unfocused. She had made errors in reports, the kind any other officer made with regularity, but never Amy Santiago and she hadn’t flinched when he’d pointed them out. She looked up too quickly when the elevator doors opened and she dropped her gaze twice as fast, her ringless left hand tight in a fist. He found her smoking at least once a week, found and not caught, because she didn’t seem to care anymore who saw the cigarette in her fingers, who smelled the smoke in her hair.

Terry didn’t pay attention to details like the Captain’s desk anymore. He was too busy trying to redistribute the cases and get them solved efficiently enough that they could justify to the higher-ups not getting any new detectives assigned to the 99. Charles spent his time working cases, mumbling under his breath the remarks Peralta would have made, the comments Charles wished to have heard, and he sang mournful Latvian lullabies in the break room. These were the best alarm clock they’d ever had for Hitchcock and Scully, who were actually solving cases at the pace of once a week now and had not broken a chair since the trial.

Gina would have said something. Something outrageous and self-absorbed and yet oddly prescient, but she was still at home with her baby, nicknamed Enigma; the Instagram announcement had blurred out the first name but left the middle name, Jay, visible to all. He’d received pictures of the infant in fright wigs and rhinestone tiaras and there had been one photo of Gina half asleep with the baby nestled against her that was the most real he’d ever seen her except for when she danced. He suspected her Boyle intended had sent it. Gina sent other pictures—glowering Rosa in a generic Goth costume from some Halloween, Jake laughing, showing every one of his teeth including molars in his enormous smile, Amy and Jake in evening wear at Rosa’s aborted wedding, Rosa in a leotard and pink tutu, a paler pink than any of the suits she’d worn to the trial, younger, her eyes just as fierce. Gina had not sent one word with the images. She hadn’t needed to. 

He moved the cellphone a centimeter to the right. He heard Charles’s surprisingly melodic hum and Amy’s voice, flattened, as she took down the report from a middle-aged woman who reminded Holt of Jake’s mother, something about the way she held her shoulders, the lines by her mouth. Hitchcock and Scully were talking, not even arguing, on task, ignoring an open bag of repugnant pickle flavored potato chips. The water in the glass was still because Jake was not walking through the door with some brilliant deduction cloaked in his preferred inanity and Rosa was not pivoting on one foot as she if were still en pointe, her loose curls like the dark cloud at the mouth of hell. There had been too little progress made in freeing the detectives, too many trips back from prisons without them. He could afford to dally no longer. Ray picked up the phone and pressed the buttons, with the deliberation of Emmanuel Pahud performing Respighi’s “Fountains of Rome.” The number rang once, twice, then he heard the softest, acidic inhalation on the other end, his cue:

“Madeline. I need a favor.”

**Author's Note:**

> Post Episode 1 of Season 5, I found myself wondering how they are going to get Jake and Rosa out of prison and it occurred to me that to take out Hawkins, they need an even more powerful woman: Madeline Wuntch! I also thought the angst of the situation got glossed over a bit.
> 
> Emmanuel Pahud is the principal flute of the Berlin Philharmonic.


End file.
